The Humble Aussie Shack

On a beach side holiday recently led me to thinking about a time gone by

The Humble Aussie beach shack

The humble Aussie beach shack is fast disappearing
Sites bought years ago for enormous sums
Two story shacks now dominate the horizon
Where has the old humble Aussie shack gone
The informal shack

There once was lino covered tables
With gashes embedded in the lino
Where filleted King George Whiting once laid
The camp stretcher, army surplus
Rusty old rickety fridge
That makes strange noises in the night
Yet never fails

The beer cold and frosty
Sitting on the verandah
A whiff of the septic perfect to enhance the moment
A nice frosty cold beer

The kids in bunk beds
Giggling, peaking through curtains
Spying on parents playing cards,
The sudden yell, when the kids have to go
Where you might ask?
The outside dunny

And don't forget when the lights go out
The mice scurry
And come out to play

Tales of fishing
The one that got away
Stories of crabs so huge
And don't forget the cooking
Outside over the open fire

This is what made the humble Aussie shack
The humble Aussie shack was once unique
For generations
Family fun
Time to sit

Shorts, thongs, esky all things Aussie,
Depending on the generation
A long neck, beer, with a cold glass
Or a stubbie with a holder

Night falls by the sea
Silence, by the humble Aussie shack
Kids tucked up in bed
Parents relaxed
A quiet Aussie shack
© barbmca

Reviews

[David Lewis Paget]

Hi Barb, that little piece really brings back the 70's to me, when my partner and I would often spend a weekend in a shack at Port Hughes, hired for an incredible (it seems now) $4.50 a night. Great days, waking to the sound of the sea, or wind lashing the eaves in the wintertime. I wrote a lot of poetry in those days, but on more of a personal basis. The shack (or a caravan) and the beach were perfect places to write. I'll share with you one I wrote at that time, on one of those magical weekends.

Time Knows No Passages

Nights in white cottages
By the last of the flickered firelight,
Supping sweet pottages
To the wind-wail without,
With the water on the wet wall
And your shadow on the lattices
As you cold-come to comfort
In the red candlelight.

At the grey day's frail dawning
We walk the storm ravages,
We talk at the tattered sea shore
Where the tide night-high rips,
I kissed you on a grey sky
Where the shells turn to sea-sand,
For time knows no passages
At a warm woman's lips.

David Lewis Paget

[B.J]

Those were the days I know all that country only too well. A lot of my adult life was spent around there even down as far as Coobowie. Thank you for sharing your poem